“Noted,” Giddard said, without looking up. “What is the origin of our city and its name?”
“It was started by prospectors who discovered a large silver deposit and while they were here they found that the soil was much more fertile than at the coast. After a few years they were making more from crops than from mining. The name of the city is an abbreviation. It was the castle of Athgrim, shortened to Castath. Originally it was much smaller and only the keep –”
“That will do. Next: Why did Thirna lose the southern reach of its sea border?”
This was something that had been covered at the end of one of the first days when many pairs of eyes had glazed over. Aedan had taken notes – he could see the words in front of him, but there was a problem. A big problem. He began tentatively,
“It was during the … uh … the floods of the … the … era of Merr … when the … the … soil …”
“What is the matter boy? At this rate your answer will span the morning.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I made that section of notes in Orunean and –”
“Cleu Orunä a menim en lerrias tor.”
Aedan should probably have expected to find that he was not the only one in the room who knew the language. He had not spoken it in a long time, but was able to recite his notes with something far nearer to fluency than he had achieved by translation.
One of the clerks smiled slightly and made a note; the other looked at Giddard, blank, waiting for enlightenment.
“It was correct,” Giddard said to him, with a touch of amusement. “Final question: What do you feel was the biggest mistake made by any of the kings during the epoch of Athgrim?”
Aedan considered. He knew what the wizened master wanted to hear, but he had a different view on this – one he was eager to present. “Banning of the midwinter jubilee in the reign of Leod.”
Giddard frowned, clearly disappointed. “How could that be worse than doubling taxes and wasting the money on royal finery, or starting a war in a desert where troops would be defeated by lack of water?”
“Well in my hometown –”
“Which is?”
“The Mistyvales.”
Giddard nodded.
“Every year we held a fair. But one year we had a new sheriff, and he decided that the fair was wasting money and slowing production because it took people away from their work. Instead of working harder, labourers just stood in the fields and complained for months. It was the worst yield ever. They still grumble about it as though something had been stolen from them. The sheriff lost more support from that than from his fancy clothes and the big carriage that our taxes paid for. We replaced him before the year was up.
“I think that banning the midwinter jubilee was the thing that got people to hate King Leod. It was only two months later that the coup began, leading up to the crimson summer. I think people are used to putting up with wars and taxes, but this would have felt like the king was attacking their happiness. I think it was the decision that made Leod an enemy to his people.”
“That’s a new perspective,” Giddard said, rubbing his chin in contemplation, “and not without merit.” He nodded at the clerks who made their entries.
“One more question,” he said. The clerks looked up in surprise. “I understand that you have perused The Five Generals of the Elgan Epoch. As a young historian, how would you describe the nature of recording?”
Aedan shuffled. Was it a trap? Had Giddard been one of the contributors? Obviously the man had spoken to Osric, so there was no backing down from his original criticism of the book.
“Very … creative,” he said at last.
Giddard nodded, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “You may proceed to the next exam.”
Law proved a less enjoyable examination. It seemed that Rodwell was in the clutches of a bad breakfast because his face twitched and contorted during Aedan’s answers, making concentration difficult and confidence impossible. Aedan knew the answer to the first question which involved levels of crime and punishment. He was less convincing with the next one dealing with means of assessing witness integrity. But it was the last question that he found nearly impossible to answer with the corpulent man wincing and shuddering at random, causing his chins to wobble and drop little beads of sweat. Aedan was asked to give an example of how mercy might be allowed a voice at the court of justice.
The memory of the girl crying for her father at the city gate was still vivid in Aedan’s mind, and he explained how sentences might be mitigated for the sake of dependents. Rodwell did not seem impressed with the answer, saying that such mitigation would then encourage large, unsustainable families. Aedan left feeling thoroughly deflated.
Navigation and cartography presented no difficulties, the names of towns, rivers and mountains being long known to him. The calculation of distances and directions, and drawing according to scale he explained easily.
The examiner for foreign relations was a young man named Kollis. He had an apparent love for questionable cultures, and bristled visibly at any hint of intolerance. “There is no such thing as a bad culture,” he would say, “just as there is no such thing as a bad spice. It’s all about being able to appreciate and understand from an unprejudiced perspective.”
Kollis looked bright and eager. “Well Aedan, due to the imminence of the Lekran threat, I’ve decided to focus my questions on their fascinating culture. First: Name the three most important celebrations on the islands of Lekrau.”
Aedan’s jaw locked. He fixed his eyes on the oak floorboards, trying to contain his disgust. He had ignored every word said about Lekrau, and had more than once been tempted to walk out when Kollis had played for affections with Lekran folk stories and even jokes. As he considered his experience of Lekrau, his feelings became words and barrelled out.
“Their entire economy runs on slavery and murder! And you want me to talk about their celebrations?”
Kollis drew himself up and glared with the wrath of injured pride. “Your prejudice is due to ignorance boy. Sheer ignorance. The proceedings require that I put the question to you again. Name the –”
“The only celebration of theirs I want to know about is where every one of their ships burns, every slaver with blood on his hands hangs, and the rest are locked in their own cages.”
“Thank you for your candour. You have made it clear that you are not fit to be a marshal.”
“If being a marshal means I have to be chummy with murderers, then I agree.”
Aedan had seldom been so angry. He stormed from the room. That anyone could sympathise with the beasts that Quin represented was incredible to him. He had half a mind to go back and suggest that Kollis try an interesting new spice on his next meal, one that a world of fools had not yet learned to appreciate, that ignorant and prejudiced people knew as arsenic.
“Name?” The voice broke in on his vengeful thoughts. It was Skeet, the petulant retired commander who clearly resented the fact that he was stuck teaching boys, not out on the field hurting people with sharp and heavy objects.
Aedan gave his name crisply, fire flashing in his eyes. He was in the mood for a brawl; he was going to be failed anyway.
“First question: You have a force of a hundred archers at the top of the Narill valley which provides excellent cover. A division of four hundred heavily armoured infantry enters the bottom of the valley. You must defeat them, even at the cost of your men. What is your first order?”
“Run away.”
“What!” Skeet slammed his fist on the desk. Though he was a relatively small man, his aura of sparks and smoke gave him a colossal presence. A partly shrivelled left arm proclaimed the reason for his recall from the field, and the rest of him proclaimed his frustration. Explosively so. At first Aedan had thought this master to be similar to Osric, but he had learned that while Osric was a deep cavern of hidden thought and carefully directed power, Skeet was all immediacy and reaction. With him, annoyance felt was annoyance expressed.
>
Aedan glared back. “I saw that valley not so long ago. It is a death trap for archers. It is filled with low branches and vines that would make a clear shot impossible even from ten yards. The high ground means nothing because the slopes are so thickly overgrown the infantry would be invisible while they moved uphill. Even if arrows were somehow shot on target they would get caught in the tangle of branches. You said it has excellent cover, but it’s the kind of cover infantry dreams about.”
Skeet’s fist hovered, seeming a lot less sure of itself. “Your next order?”
“Retreat to the plain with the archers and wait until the whole force of infantry has taken up the chase, shoot a few crooked and broken arrows to make it seem like arrows are out, and then lead them far enough onto the plain to make their retreat impossible. After that, unload on them. If they charge, run away again. Their armour will make them slower and they’ll get tired quicker. If they flee, chase them. They won’t survive long under falling arrows. Only fools or people who’ve got no knowledge of terrain would attack in the valley. Loss of sight, loss of command, loss of advantage, and no knowledge of the outcome until the last survivors trickle in.”
Skeet took a deep breath as if to say something, then let it out again, this time scowling at the notes in front of him. He looked up at Aedan. “Blood and fire! You’re right.” Then he turned to the clerks and spoke in a dangerously quiet voice, “Which of you halfwits set this question?”
Both shrank into their seats. Each pointed at the other. Skeet ignored them.
“Good, work Aedan. You are the first to impress me and I fully expect that you will be the last.”
The next two questions were simple explanations of standard tactical procedures.
In the sixth room, there were only two men. Aedan started as he saw the tall grey-haired examiner wearing the long blue robes of the academy’s high seat. This could only be the great Culver, the man before whom everyone in the academy quailed, the most learned scholar in the city if not the land.
Beside him sat a voluminous scribe with a wild black bush of hair and another of beard. The hair covered all but a large round nose that glowed slightly from the cold, and sharp eyes that twinkled as if he’d played some terrific prank on the world that morning.
“Aedan, son of Clauman, why do you wish to be a Castath marshal?” Culver asked without any preamble.
Aedan, despite his lingering anger, was intimidated, but he squared his shoulders and tried to sound confident. “I want to bring justice to Lekrau,” he said.
“Is that all? Have you no other ambitions?”
“I hate tyrants. I hate bullies. All of them. If I could bring war to the whole lot I would, but I intend to start with Lekrau.”
“You want to start a war with Lekrau?” Culver lifted his brows. The weight of his eyes was imposing, but his incredulous tone felt to Aedan like mockery, and it raised his temperature despite the warning at the back of his mind. Unconsciously he clenched his fists as he replied.
“Lekrau has already started a war with us. We sit and cower, hoping that they will choose the village next door. That is not avoiding war. It’s just fighting it badly.” His voice had been too loud. He knew it.
Culver regarded him in silence for an uncomfortably long time. “Have you any more to say?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then you may leave.”
The bushy scribe was writing and did not glance up. Aedan was taken through to a hall in which a large fireplace, several yards across, was hard at work against the chill of the day. Here he found Peashot and the others who had been ahead in the line, slowly baking themselves in front of the coals.
“Ever seen anyone with less personality than that last dried up stick of a man?” Peashot asked.
“You mean the chancellor?”
Peashot fell silent with his mouth open, then bit his lip.
“What did you say to him?”
“Nothing.”
The other boys joined them and bombarded Aedan with questions, comparing answers, but even their nervousness couldn’t shake him from the bitter experience of foreign relations and of Kollis the Clown. When the questions had run dry, he dragged himself away from the group and the fire to a gloomy corner where he kicked at the floor, waiting for the hall to fill and fates to be announced.
Eventually, the last of the hopefuls arrived, and then the examiners walked through and entered a room that opened off to the side. Before the doors closed, the aromas of hot tea and oats-and-honey cakes drifted out, taunting the cold and hungry boys.
They didn’t have long to wait before matters became interesting. It sounded like several men were speaking together, loudly. Kollis’s moralising tones took over and then a voice that could only have been Skeet’s cut through all conversation, “By my sword-arm you shall not! You take your ideals too far, sir!” Culver’s voice intervened and restored calm. It was midday, though still cold as dawn by the time the examiners emerged and walked to the stage. Giddard approached the lectern with a sheet of paper.
“There are twenty names on this list,” he said. “But before I read it, I must congratulate every one of you. We have never been privileged to examine such a competent group. Those of you who are not named now will be shortlisted for potential military promotions should you choose to enrol there. Every one of you would be a valuable asset to our permanent garrison.”
With that, he read the list. Peashot, or Bede as he was officially known, was the first named. Several followed until Aedan realised these were all boys who had gone after him.
He felt sick. His head dropped forward. How would he explain this to Osric? What kind of fool loses his temper in an examination? He wondered if he even had the right to go back to Osric after this. But to face Harriet again …
Giddard folded up the page. Some boys were ecstatic and grouped in little victors’ circles. The others began to drift away.
“And Aedan son of Clauman.”
He glanced up at the mention of his name. Giddard held his eye with a stern face. It was all the reprimand that was needed. Aedan dropped his eyes, relief flooding through him, and in spite of his effort to remain grave, smiled.
The boys were given a week to spend with their families. Aedan went to visit his mother every day and stayed as long as Harriet would allow. There was no news of Clauman, but mother and son constantly reminded each other that in a city so large it might take him some time to find them. For all his abusiveness, he was still husband and father, and they missed him.
Nessa was delighted to hear that Aedan had made it into the academy. Harriet was not. She wanted to know what he thought he would learn there that she could not have taught him. It was an answer so colossal that Aedan didn’t know how to begin. Harriet interpreted the hesitation differently. She shook her yellow curls with a look of infinite wisdom and noble pity.
“The academy is a place for fools,” she said, “a place where loud-mouths sit around in soft couches and talk about things they’ve never seen.”
“Oh,” said Nessa, with sincere enthusiasm, “have you seen it?”
Harriet pulled a sour face. “Of course not. After everything I’ve just explained, why would I care to?”
After their break, the twenty boys gathered at the main entrance. Some had arrived early in the afternoon, bursting with curiosity. The sentry made it clear, however, that they would not be allowed in before the day’s end – when a clerk would officially escort them through the gates. None had ever been inside, and they were all eagerness and impatience as they gnawed through the hours. Finally, the long awaited clerk arrived, took charge of them at the outer gate and led the way past the guards, along a passage and through a second gate. Then the Royal Academy opened up, as did every mouth.
Wide lawns lined with ancient trees were surrounded by the most unusual and fascinating stone buildings, unlike anything else in the city. Apart from the central meeting hall, each of four main wings was between three and five stor
eys high. Pillars were fronted with statues of exquisite beauty and separated from each other by gargoyles of startling hideousness, all of them quite life like. There were noble arches, airy corridors, plentiful windows and high balconies. The intricately featured walls and columns were all faced with limestone and marble that glowed a deep imperial rose in the lingering sunset. Even the stables beyond several acres of fenced paddocks exuded noble condescension.
“Academics are split into four sections,” the clerk said, indicating with a hand as he listed them. “Marshals, military officers, legal administrators, and physicians. Beyond are the residences where the masters and some seniors are housed. There are also a few other buildings that not even I can identify. Best keep clear of them. The Royal Academy is very old. There are more than a few secrets within these walls.”
“Why are there physicians here?” someone asked in a reverent whisper.
“A level of medical knowledge is required for marshals and officers, so it is convenient for them to be housed on the premises. And where better for a medical school to locate itself, where better to find open wounds on which to practice, than where military and legal men are brought together?”
A few boys whispered to each other. Most were still staring around in awe.
“Rules will be explained tomorrow. For now, keep to the marshals’ wing. The lawns and stables belong to everyone, but some of the law students can get territorial. They tend not to like marshals and will make trouble with the hatchlings – that would be you. The two giant crindo boards – you’ll all want to have a go at shifting stone pieces as big as yourselves, but if hatchlings are caught there they spend the rest of the day doing chores for whichever senior finds them. And keep well clear of the central meeting hall and the surrounding lawn within the ring of statues. That place is almost sacred here. You don’t want to learn the penalty for trespassing.”
The boys paid him scant attention as they gaped, some shaking their heads. Aedan was laughing. He was awash in amazement. That such a place could exist in the middle of a city … and right alongside the Seeps!
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 22
